Scotia's Grave

  Scotia’s Grave

  By T L Harty

  Scotia’s Grave

  Copyright © 2020 by T. L. Harty

  Cover Design by: CoverQuill.com

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used

  in any manner without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2020

  ISBN 978-0-9982854-7-4

  To my Grandpa Wayne

  who showed me what it meant to be content.

  There is hardly a greater gift.

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1- To Begin Again

  Chapter 2- Unexpected Injury

  Chapter 3- The Plan

  Chapter 4- The Library

  Chapter 5- College

  Chapter 6- Facing Demons

  Chapter 7- Party Time

  Chapter 8- Breadcrumbs

  Chapter 9- Obsession

  Chapter 10- Proof

  Chapter 11- Lonely

  Chapter 12- The Ball

  Chapter 13- Sunrise

  Chapter 14- Grosse Isle

  Chapter 15- Marine World

  Chapter 16 – The Bonding

  Chapter 17- Dad and Rick

  Chapter 18- Betrayal

  Chapter 19 - Change of Heart

  Chapter 20- Searching

  Chapter 21- Stabbing Doubts

  Chapter 22- A New Land

  Chapter 23- Intervention

  Chapter 24- Graveside

  Chapter 25- Homeless

  Chapter 26- Begnet’s Island

  Chapter 27- Men in Robes

  Chapter 28- Requirements

  Chapter 1- To Begin Again

  Suicide had never been an ongoing option in my life, but when thrust into despair, it beckoned to be considered. Turning eighteen would seem an exciting time for most, signifying the start of the opportunities that come with adulthood. But looking ahead into the uncertain darkness empowered me to create my own, certain darkness.

  Feelings evaporate after an exit has been decided upon and only the question of “how” demands to be answered. No pills were readily available and a last-second error from a gun might merely cause injury. One thing for certain- failure wasn’t on the menu. I scoffed at people who couldn’t get it right…questioned their commitment.

  It occurred to me that I had one near-death experience when, at the age of 5, I almost drowned at a nearby river before my father rescued me. A bit of struggling in the beginning gave way to acceptance of my fate- watching the light at the top of the water move farther away was serene, almost dreamlike. A water burial would suffice.

  My grandfather had some rope and a strong fishing net in his workshop. There would be huge rocks on the shoreline of the lake to fill the net, so I planned to tie the rope around my waist and attach it to the weighted net. I loaded up the car with the death supplies and drove to the dock on the lake. In my youth, the lake was practically barren of activity, and only had a tiny shack where bait could be purchased. Now, a cozy restaurant perched on a dock, with quite a few boat slips.

  Prepping for suicide spurred on my appetite, so I went into the restaurant and ordered my last meal: pancakes and hot chocolate. I watched out the window as the boats in the slips swayed back and forth with the rippling of the water. My food arrived and I ate it quietly, still mesmerized by the boats. Going through the motions, I paid the bill and used the restroom.

  A boat slip, on the far end of the dock, had a small, lone powerboat tied to it. The boat hadn’t been part of my original plan, but borrowing it made sense. I walked to the car to retrieve the rope and fishing net, glancing at the boat now and then to be certain it remained unattended.

  This would be the last time I viewed this scene, so I stopped to admire the beautiful way the lake nestled in the hills. A breeze could be heard and seen in the top of the tree line before it reached down to the lake. While walking to the boat, the sound of the gravel beneath my feet clearly rang out an eerie death march…the weight of the rope a reminder of the plan ahead.

  Acting very naturally, I threw the rope and net into the boat, and untied the two lines attaching the boat to the dock. The boat already faced out toward the lake, instilling confidence that the departure would be simple.

  Climbing aboard, I searched my memory for the start-up process. My dad had showed me several times, but the controls suddenly intimidated. One step at a time, I told myself. The blower needs to be turned on first. If the residual gas fumes aren’t blown out, it could result in an explosion. That would be O.K., if the explosion was big enough to off me, but it probably wouldn’t be. It’d be loud enough to garner unwanted attention and I might garner a flesh wound.

  The hum of the blower delighted me, after pressing the button because this meant the boat’s battery worked. After waiting the obligatory three minutes or so, I checked that the boat’s gear shift sat in neutral and the throttle maintained its lowest setting. Turning the key started the engine. I’d never understand why people left their keys in the ignition so often…another curiosity of mine that wouldn’t matter when tomorrow came.

  After turning the blower off, I slowly put the boat into gear. My left hand wrapped tight around the steering wheel, and my right rested on the throttle. A customary rule in boating called for slow speeds near the dock area but, once a couple feet out, I sped up prematurely. A smile may have even crossed my lips for the first time in weeks.

  The lake’s shape wasn’t round, but more of a wide, meandering path with many offshoots. Signs all around the lake warned that certain areas were too shallow for motorized crafts. Some of the waterway offshoots had guide sticks that showed the water depth. Because spring had begun, the water would be high and frigid.

  A chill came over me, and I immediately regretted the choice of a t-shirt and pair of shorts. A bright orange sweatshirt lay on one of the seats but it couldn’t be easily reached, and I wouldn’t dare put the boat in neutral until I had found a good spot to die. The boat may stall. Too risky.

  During the fifteen minutes I traveled on the lake, only a lone fisherman was encountered. I steered clear of his fishing area and we gave the obligatory wave. Whoever owned this boat, had a lot of waterskiing equipment on the slip back at the dock. They may not normally get out on the water until noon, when the temperature rises. It’d be even better if the owner of the boat lived out of town and hadn’t arrived yet.

  Looking for an offshoot, I found one to explore rather quickly. I moved the throttle back and turned in. The trees were badly overgrown, so I held a hand up to keep the branches off my face. Once past the trees, I found myself on a small body of water- my own personal lake. Small, maybe the size of an ice rink, with a similar oval shape. Two separate mountaintops surrounded the water, hinting that it should be deep in the middle. Everything seemed perfect.

  Shifting into neutral, I steered for land and tensed for the grounding. It wouldn’t be a pleasant stop because no sandy beach awaited, only the slope of a mountain to encounter. This area was obviously not accessible in the later summer months, when the water level dropped, but the melting snow continued to pour into the lake and would continue to do so until summer arrived.

  Bang! The boat made a horrific noise as it grounded, lurching me forward. The birds in the surrounding trees took flight. Ideally, I should have slowed down sooner, but the higher speed did help the tip of the boat get stuck in the wet ground and keep it stationary. I grabbed the orange sweatshirt and put it on to ease the chill. With fishing net in hand, I stepped over the small glass windshield, walked over the top of the boat, and jumped onto the s
loping terra firma.

  After laying the net out to be filled, I pushed up my sleeves. Let the rock-gathering begin. There were all kinds of shapes and sizes of rock, but the easiest to move or stack were the flatter ones. At one point, I climbed up the mountainside to throw some rocks down. Not all of them landed where I hoped and some took a bad leap, hitting the boat. The person who owned the boat would not appreciate my carelessness, but I sarcastically thought: What are they going to do, kill me?

  As I was getting ready to pitch four large, flat rocks down toward the net, I noticed the boat had moved off its perch. That wouldn’t have concerned me except for the fact that the rope was still on board. I instinctively dropped the rocks, while their jagged edges left trails of blood as they slid down my arms. By the time I made it down to the boat, the boat had traveled a couple of feet from the shore.

  It seemed an easy retrieval until my foot landed on a slippery, moss-covered rock, causing my ankle to overextend to the side. Having endured many sports injuries, I identified the sprained ankle in short order. Grimacing in pain, I pushed on the boat to get myself back up on the shoreline. After a couple of minutes of sitting, the adrenaline left my body. The cuts on my arms began to burn and the throbbing in my ankle intensified. Yet, nothing pained me more than watching the boat move farther away from the shoreline.

  I pulled the sweatshirt sleeves down over my bleeding arms. My hair wouldn’t stay out of my face in the beginning of today’s outing, but now the dirt and blood matted it down well enough to push it back.

  Judging by the position of the sun overhead, it had to be around 11 a.m. At this point, my plans of death at high noon seemed impossible. Swimming out to the boat was easy enough, but I never threw a rope ladder over, leaving no way to get on board from the water.

  “You really screwed this one up, Muriel,” I said to myself, while lying down on my back.

  It would get cold here at night, but probably enough to make me uncomfortable- not kill me. Drowning, without the weight of the rocks, wouldn’t work. Even with the pains in my body and my mind searching for other options, my eyes became heavy and I dozed off for a bit.

  My dreams were filled with loved ones mourning my death. Shame came over me, while realizing that there had been no regard for their feelings when making my decision. My future life flashed before me in bits and pieces. The accomplishments and laughter were plenty, but I, like a child, wallowed in my recent moments of despair. The loss of Jed still crept up on me and punched me in the gut from time to time, this being one of those times.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, you stupid bitch!” a male voice shot through the air.

  Not the perfect way to be awakened, but the anger became understandable. It was apparent that the owner of the boat must have found me, and he didn’t appreciate that I had “borrowed” his boat. As the scene came into focus, I saw that lake patrol had driven the screaming man here on one of their flat-bottomed aluminum boats. They were about six feet away from me and on the water. Past the patrol boat, another man stood on my borrowed vessel.

  That man shouted, while he looked around the boat, and started the engine, “Everything looks good. Nothing seems to be wrong.”

  “Nothing better be wrong,” the screaming man said. “Look at this! This kid even had the audacity to wear my sweatshirt,” he snorted.

  It didn’t make me mad when he swore at me, but the crack about me being a kid- unforgiveable. Eighteen meant adulthood! I picked up a small rock and threw it at him. He ducked just in time.

  “You little…” he started.

  The lake patrolman grabbed him and interrupted, “Now, let’s concentrate on getting everyone back to the dock. I’ll have someone come get your boat because it’s evidence now.”

  He looked at the patrolman in disbelief and said, “You mean she steals my boat and ruins my weekend? This is bullshit!”

  “We’ll do our best to get a quick turn-around for you, sir,” the patrolman said, with more consideration than the idiot deserved. “Can you give me your hand?” the patrolman asked me.

  I hobbled to my feet and hopped closer. He could see that it caused me pain. “I sprained my ankle,” I explained, practically whispering.

  “Oh, so she can talk,” said the screamer. “Here I thought you were some mountain creature living a wild life of no showers and grunting in lieu of speech.”

  He had a right to be angry and it was probably best not to deny him the pleasure. Once the patrolman helped me onto the boat, we went and picked up the man in the other boat.

  “Go ahead and drop anchor. I’ll have someone come pick it up within the hour,” the patrolman said to the man on the boat. “Hop in when you’re done.” The man followed the patrolman’s instructions.

  When we were all seated, we began the drive to the docks. This trip seemed much longer than my morning trek. At least it was quiet, that is, until the screamer could no longer contain more rage.

  “What the hell made you think that it would be O.K. to take my boat?” the screamer interrogated me.

  “Not only your boat, Grant,” the other man said. “It’s mine too. You always forget that little fact.”

  Grant looked at his friend in disgust, and responded, “That’s not the point, Travis.” Grant looked back at me and asked, “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “Don’t answer that,” the patrolman advised. “If this becomes a criminal case, anything you say here can be used against you.” He looked in my direction and said, “I do need to ask you your name, though.”

  “Muriel,” I whispered.

  “Muriel? Wayne’s granddaughter?” the patrolman asked, surprised. “Well, I’ll be. I didn’t even recognize you under all that dirt or the sweatshirt.”

  “Speaking of the sweatshirt,” Grant said, “you owe me seventy-five dollars. Those stains probably won’t come out.”

  Grant continued to spew demands and yell, but I closed my eyes to breathe in this new opportunity at life. These men had no idea about my second chance. They didn’t understand that the air smelled fresher or that the flowers became more vivid in color. The idea of a new beginning made the tiniest smile curl my lips.

  When I opened my eyes, Grant glared in my direction. He would be an attractive man if he wasn’t so angry. Likewise, Travis would be incredibly handsome if he showed any sign of having a backbone.

  The dock finally came into view. When we pulled up, the patrolman docked closer to the restaurant, farther from my car. Grant jumped out of the boat and looked back to see that Travis started to help me out of the boat. Grant grabbed Travis by the arm and pulled him out of the boat.

  “You’re not going to help her!” Grant instructed. “Don’t be a dumbass. She stole our boat! C’mon.” Grant smacked Travis in the arm and they both disappeared into the restaurant.

  The patrolman assisted me to my car. He told me not to worry too much about this. Once the boat was found to be free of damage and these guys had time to cool down- everything would be fine. He also said that no police officer or judge in the area would go against my grandfather. I knew this to be true. Not because my grandfather had great riches or power, but because he had a heart of gold and, at one time or another, had helped everyone in the area either directly or by association.

  “Do you know how long Grant and Travis will be in the area?” I wondered, getting into my car.

  “They’re usually up here until Sunday afternoon,” the patrolman answered, suspicious of the question. “But, it’s best you keep your distance.”

  “Well, I have to return this sweatshirt or give him money to replace it if I can’t get the stains out,” I explained, sharing half my plan.

  “Oh, ya, the sweatshirt,” the patrolman remembered. “Well, drive safe, and say hello to Wayne for me. I have to get back to work,” he patted the top of the car and walked back toward the restaurant.

  The twenty minute ride to my grandparent’s house was not without pain. My Grammy spotted me limpi
ng towards the back patio, and frantically ran out to meet me.

  “Muriel! What happened?” she asked, concerned. “You look a mess!”

  “I’m fine, Grammy,” I fibbed. “Nothing a shower, bag of ice, bandages and aspirin can’t solve. I took a tumble down near the lake, that’s all. I’m such a klutz.” My smile didn’t seem to offer her any comfort.

  Practically in tears, Grammy said, “I’m glad you’re O.K.”

  After Grammy completed all her nursing inspections, she allowed me to go to the bathroom for my shower. The reflection in the mirror beared little resemblance to my normal appearance and I now understood Grammy’s concern when she saw me. My hair was matted so badly that it looked like I’d been out at the lake for weeks. The dirt all over my face and arms made me virtually unrecognizable. No wonder Grant acted like a jerk.

  I took a long, warm shower in the very bathroom where my secret revealed itself to me. Between the weight of my identity and the loss of Jed, it had all become too much.

  After I dried off, Grammy bandaged me up. Grammy and Gramps argued over the use of iodine vs. antibiotic creams. Gramps would believe until the end of his days that iodine could fix almost any ill. There were a couple of cuts on my arm that seemed deep, but no mention of stitches came as a relief.

  “What were you doing, exactly, to get all these cuts?” Grammy asked. “And how did you sprain your ankle?”

  “I was gathering rocks and they slid down my arms,” I attempted to explain. “Some of them were very sharp.” Grammy and Gramps looked at me with concern, as though I may be crazy. They weren’t that far off the mark, when reviewing the events of the day. “My ankle slipped on a mossy rock,” I said, not going into detail. “It’s really no big deal. I’ll wrap it up and limp around for a couple of days.” The two of them made for a tough audience, their stares unwavering.

  For a split second, my sarcastic tendencies almost had me blurting out the truth: Well, it’s been a rough few months. I felt like death was a good answer to my irritation with life. The rocks were to weigh down a net, which would be attached by a rope around my waist. Everything planned out purely for drowning purposes. Oh! And I decided to steal a boat at the last minute.